Self-confessed wine philistine Simon Rumley heads to Washington State — the “new kid on the block” of American wine — and discovers Seattle’s eccentric charms before the serious tasting begins…
As someone who’s been drinking wine for the better part of forty years, my knowledge of it is probably best described as woefully inadequate. Sure, I can tell my Sancerre from my Chardonnay but, errr, that’s about it. I usually encourage others at dinner to choose from the wine list, and on the occasional supermarket purchase I’ll shy away from anything north of £15 (unless it’s a Sancerre). Does that make me a wine philistine? Quite probably. My delight bubbled over, therefore, when invited on a wine tourism trip to Washington — the new kid on the block when it comes to wine production, apparently. Time, finally, for the wine education that has always eluded me.
First things first, though: with about 90 different places in America called Washington, geography can be confusing. Washington DC is the city in which America’s President lives, and where there are precisely zero grape vines. Diametrically opposite DC, on the northwest coast above Oregon and below Canada’s British Columbia, sprawls the much more rural Washington State, where there are literally thousands of vines. We fly into the state’s largest and most famous city, Seattle. Surrounded by several lakes and flanked by the Olympic Mountains to the west and the Cascade Range to the east, this has to be one of the prettiest air route entrances in the world.
There’s a daintiness, almost a fragility, about the city itself. Based on the typical American grid system, its downtown architecture could be Anywheresville, USA, but the streets are far from packed and the air not strangled by carbon monoxide. With a small window of spare time before our first wine appointment, I leg it to the shiny Frank Gehry-designed Museum of Pop Culture, best known for housing an exhibition about the city’s most famous sons, Nirvana. Somewhat disappointingly, this closed six months ago after a solid fifteen-year run.
There’s a smaller exhibition about Seattle’s other musical titan, Jimi Hendrix, plus one on Hip Hop’s birth and another on the power of pop culture generally. The displays are eclectic, so it’s best to wander without expectation and marvel at what you might bump into — a Public Enemy stage jacket, a Kurt Cobain guitar, a Darth Vader costume, even the Wicked Witch of the West’s hat from The Wizard of Oz. In the basement (where else?) there’s also a survey of horror film history, and even a photo booth where visitors are encouraged to capture the perfect scream.
Built as a cultural centrepiece for the 1962 World’s Fair, themed “The Age of Space,” right next door is Seattle’s most famous landmark, the Space Needle. At 605ft tall, it probably houses the city’s speediest elevator and the country’s most imaginative gift shop, where everything from cocktail glasses to pepper pots to slightly dangerous-looking glass bottles share the Needle’s silhouette.
The 360-degree views of the city and beyond are truly jaw-dropping, and visitors are encouraged to eat or drink at The Loupe Lounge — a fascinating if disconcerting experience once you realise it’s the lazy person’s way to check out the view; the Loupe revolves constantly, so sit there long enough and you’ll have seen the whole of Seattle without lifting a toe. Also disconcerting, if you dare: stand on the transparent glass floor near the elevators for a dizzying, nauseous, but must-try thrill.
After a solid fix of culture, I’m sufficiently edified to meet our first winemakers of the trip: Morgan Lee of Two Vintners and Will Camarda of Andrew Will Winery. By mistake rather than design, I sit next to Will and am initially tongue-tied about wine-talk, especially after his detailed presentation, which included bottles of Grenache Blanc, Syrah and the notoriously tough-to-grow Zinfandel. Morgan, thankfully, is a friendly chap, who has been in the grape trenches since the early 2000s, when he established his company at the relatively tender age of twenty-seven. His sentiments are echoed throughout the trip — not least by Will, whom he sees not as a rival but a friend with whom to exchange information and compare notes.
Morgan Lee, Two Vintners
There are over 1,000 wineries in the state, the vast majority run by friends, husband-and-wife teams, or families. No one seems to make too many dollars, but everyone shares a passion for the craft, which almost all see as a calling. There’s a healthy respect for the Californian vineyards that put America on the wine-making map, but also an underlying confidence that Washington is more eclectic, has a wider range of product, is generally less po-faced, and is just getting started. Producers seem to shy away from premium pricing and emphasise that wine drinking should be a laid-back, fun experience, best shared with friends and family.
DeLille Cellars restaurant
The next morning we head to Woodinville, a bucket-list stop for any wine aficionado, full of wineries that sit literally next door to each other. A 40-minute drive from town, it’s either an expensive Uber away or a discussion about who’s driving and abstaining. On the way, I discover almost everyone else travelling with me holds a Master of Wine qualification from the UK’s Institute of Masters of Wine, so I come clean about my novice status. No one seems to care, apart from me.
We check out LATTA Wines and lunch with DeLille Cellars. At Chateau Ste. Michelle, we sit through a wine-blending presentation that’s fascinating for me but a little underwhelming for the experts. I’m proverbially bricking it when asked what the wine in front of us smells of. My olfactory sense isn’t great, and although technically there are no wrong answers, I’m pretty sure I could come up with a few. The wine is red, which at least narrows things down.
Words like “leather,” “tobacco,” “dark chocolate” and “cinnamon” catapult around my cranium, but I struggle to identify any such aromas. I swirl, I sniff. Short bursts, then longer ones. Time’s running out. Everyone’s looking at me. I mumble a little. Erm… well… maybe… I hedge my bets, practically asking the question: “Dark berries?” Our hostess seems very happy with my insight. Yes — dark berries! I’m even happier when the others raise my stakes to blackberries, cherries and blackcurrants.
Chateau Ste Michelle, Woodinville
We hit the Cove (a former Hooters site, for anyone wondering) back in Seattle for happy-hour wine from Ackley Brands, then more at dinner courtesy of Cadence Winery and Pomum Cellars. By the end of the day, my notes tell me we’ve tasted thirty-two wines. It’s not in my nature to spit out wine, but I’m starting to understand the concept, if not yet the necessity, of a spittoon.
I’m sad to leave our Edgewater Hotel, named for obvious reasons and located near Pike Place Market on the downtown waterfront overlooking Elliott Bay. Part moose-hunting lodge, part rock ‘n’ roll refuge, everyone from the Stones to Zeppelin to Bowie has stayed there, but the most enduring story belongs to the Beatles, who, so legend has it, wanted to fish during their stay. Anyone given the same suite (it seems even the Beatles had to share rooms sometimes) now also has a fishing rod at their disposal. If guests catch something, rumour has it the kitchen might fillet and cook it for you, if you’re nice to them. No fishing for me, but I can heartily recommend the Dungeness crab Benedict, the likes of which I’ve never encountered on UK shores.
In Part II tomorrow, Simon continues the journey east, from Twin Peaks territory to the vineyards of Walla Walla…
